Beer and Wine Make an Excellent Combination
by DjDangerLove
Summary: One-shot set after Point Blank: "As if anything could hurt me from way down here. The bitter thought crossed Neal's mind before the image of standing above a gravestone that read 'Mozzie' flashed in his mind's eye."  ... No character death.


**A one-shot set after Point Blank.**

**Beer and Wine Make an Excellent Combination**

Neal twisted the cool glass in his hands, the red wine inside barely sloshing around as his movements were slow and deliberate. The elegance of the liquid inside the wine glass did nothing to challenge his mood as his elbows rested painfully on the edge of the table inside his apartment. The weight of his shoulders holding up the world pressed down harshly on his elbows that supported it all.

He let go of the glass and added the weight of his head into his hands. His elbows were beginning to go numb. His shoulders deflated with the release of a deep breath but bulked back up as he choked on the next intake of air. Water refused to come to his eyes.

Fingers twisted and pulled at the roots of his abnormal grimy hair, their outcome being the only thing Neal felt proud of for the day. The pain felt good. It was welcomed. He pulled harder and let more in. But Neal found the meaning in too much of a good thing and let his fingers fall down from his scalp and rub across his mangy face, before placing them over his ears to block out the silence, something Neal became good at in prison. Silence wasn't the only thing they blocked out though.

The sounds of someone walking into the apartment, taking something from the fridge and sitting down across from him was deaf on his ears. His eyes supplied him with the knowledge of the presence sitting in front of him. A mirror could have been placed in front of him and he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. That is, until the look of sympathy crossed the other person's eyes and was directed towards him. Neal didn't feel sympathy for himself. He felt anger and the anger played across his own dark, blue eyes and shot towards the man in front of him for being so ignorant.

But when his anger seemed to bounce off an invisible shield, never reaching the person in front of him, he just absorbed the loose anger again and his shoulders became bigger.

He watched the man in front of him take a sip from one of the beer cans he had placed on the table while sitting down across from him moments ago and for a split second Neal envied the man. His composure was the poster-child for perfection. Neal wondered if the beer was his secret. Wine had been his, but tonight his secret had abandoned him. Its contents no longer held the ingredients it took to make Neal's mind become oblivious, his heart become lighter and his breath become easier.

He eyed the unclaimed cans on the table, before looking back to his own glass, its elegance taunting. Neal's slender fingers wrapped around a cold beer can for the first time since he was a rebellious teenager.

"Neal."

The warning came as a question. _Are you sure you want to drink that?_

An anonymous emotion lifted the corner of Neal's mouth while a breath was blew threw his nose. He opened the can.

He lifted it with a weak arm, in a toast. "Peter."

He was in the process of bringing the beer to his lips when a warm, rough hand caught his wrist more carefully than a pair of handcuffs ever had, but to the same effect.

"Neal."

Peter was no longer asking.

Neal met his gaze with the same anger he had displayed before, but found something comforting in the denial of permission. He found a different direction than down. It wasn't up, but it was a direction that let him stay afloat in a life that was suddenly sinking. He let the can be pried from his fingers and placed out of his reach without ever breaking eye contact with the older man who know leaned over the table and towered protectively above him.

_As if anything could hurt me from way down here._ The bitter thought crossed Neal's mind before the image of standing above a gravestone that read 'Mozzie' flashed in his mind's eye.

For a split second, he wondered if the image actually appeared in his bare eyes as Peter's face softened before realizing the emotions that shaped his own face. His eyes were creased with worry, his mouth pulled down by desolation.

"He is going to make it, Neal."

Neal didn't believe him and for a fraction of a second he let the honest emotion show. The man's hand still held his wrist. Peter's grip tightened.

"You want him to make it, you have to make it."

Neal threatened to break eye contact, but Peter's grip got tighter and for some reason made it impossible for Neal to do so.

He felt the familiar neck of the wine glass being placed in his hand and once his fingers held it with normalcy Peter released his wrist and sat back down across from him, grabbing his beer. Neal watched him and waited for the slant of Peter's hand that tipped the can in his direction to tell him to drink.

Peter did so with a nod of his head. "Drink."

Neal watched Peter, like a child watched his father for direction, and slowly mimicked the agent's movements.

He drank his wine. Peter drank his beer.

Neal found the ingredients that had been missing from his wine. The truth was that the ingredients were never in there to begin with. The ingredients were on the outside of the glass, outside of the bottle, outside of the can. The ingredients that made his mind become oblivious, his heart become lighter and his breath come easier were always on the other side of the table. Whether it was Mozzie smirking at him over a fancy glass of wine or Peter shaking his head at him over a can of beer, the liquid became oblivious just like Neal's mind.

Neal twisted the cool glass in his hands, the red wine inside barely sloshing around as his movements were slow and deliberate. The elegance of the liquid inside the wine glass did nothing to challenge his mood as his elbows rested painfully on the edge of the table inside his apartment. The weight of his shoulders holding up the world pressed down harshly on his elbows that supported it all. But underneath his elbows was a table and that table supported his elbows. Always on the other side of that table was a friend, whether it was Mozzie or Peter, that grounded the other side of it, making it impossible for it to crumble underneath Neal's arms.

The table would always be there, much like Peter and Mozzie for as long as they could. He just hoped that one day soon, he would look up to see Mozzie sitting healthily beside Peter, because beer and wine make a excellent combination.

**AN: Thanks for reading! Share your thoughts? **


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